Page 70 of Brutal Truths

We’re almost clear of the meadow near the barn when someone strolls out of the main entrance. Zander and I drop low, disappearing into the tall grass. Silas actually follows this time, finally shutting up.

The man checks his watch, then looks down the long road running beside us. After a few beats, he pulls out his phone and brings it to his ear.

The phone pressed to my chest vibrates.

So this is Rurik.

Silencing my phone, I take the next several seconds to study him. He’s nothing special. Not nearly as big as me, but he’s no wimp, either. Still… there’s something familiar about him.

It clicks the second he turns.

“Oh, shit.” Zander mumbles next to me. “Tell me you see it too.”

“I do. You don’t think?” I glance over my shoulder just enough to study the man behind us.

He’s glaring at the man with fire in his eyes.

Hell, they could be brothers.

Silas shifts forward, and I catch it immediately. He’s about to do something stupid and get us killed.

I tap his leg and give a sharp shake of my head, warning him off. For once, he listens, sinks back on his haunches.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

After several unsuccessful attempts to get me to answer, Rurik shoves his phone back into his pocket. Lifting his head to the sky, he draws in a few slow breaths, rolls his neck, then disappears back inside.

With him gone, I shift my attention to the man fuming beside me. I need to calm him down so we can regroup and devise a solid plan.

Keeping my voice low, I ask, “You know him?”

His jaw clenches tight, the cords in his neck standing out as his muscles bunch beneath his shirt, causing a vein to throb at his temple. “It’s been several years since that fucker has dared to show his face. It’s been so long that I’d forgotten his name until just now.”

Silas’s frown deepens as he spits out his full name, each syllable laced with venom. “Rurik Vetrov, a fucking Del Markov Russian. Twenty years ago, his uncle, brimming with delusional confidence, believed he could resurrect the Del Markov bratva. It was my job to make sure that never happened. Rurik ran like a coward after witnessing me slit his uncle’s throat. He got away once. Not this time.”

Silas spits and mutters a curse in Gaelic, “Tá tú marbh cheana féin.”

I don’t speak Gaelic, so I have to ask, “What does that mean?”

“You’re already dead.” His voice goes cold and menacing as he utters a phrase I recognize—the words the Doyles always repeat before snuffing out a life. “You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”

Then he’s moving.

Silas stands with that arrogant certainty only a man like him carries. He walks straight out of our hiding spot and heads for the barn.

I try to stop him without drawing attention. “Silas, fuck, wait.”

Does he listen? Hell no.

Because he’s a fucking prick who’s been taught to believe the world moves when he tells it to.

Zander and I are up a second later, jogging after him. “He’s going to get us killed.”

“Not if I can help it.” I lengthen my stride, already knowing Zander’s right.

Bollocks.

I catch up, then try to de-escalate the situation before he turns this into something we can’t come back from. “Think this through. Marching in there gives him leverage. We have all this shit you said was overkill we can use to our advantage. The second you open that door, this turns into a suicide mission. You can’t become the captain if you’re dead.”